Telling You Already
by JDCorley
Summary: A sequel to "The Long Version" - an FBI agent, the Maximum Ride kids, and the Institute. What would happen if Patterson's worlds collided? Warning: A lot of cursing in this story.


So I'm telling you already. Shut up and quit crying and I'll tell you.

**Telling You Already**

_A Maximum Ride Story_

There was this guy. Fedorcyk Ford. "Four Door Ford" they called him. Fedorcyk was this Polack motherfucker who ran whores in DC, a lot of money if you can get it, but he never seemed to have any, he spent it all "at the shop", so to speak.

I'm explaining that, so will you kindly shut the fuck up. Four-door was driving along in his shitty pimped out Lincoln that smelled like Lysol and bleach through this Virginia burb and he got pulled over.

Officer goes "License and registration"  
Four-door goes "Sorry boss, my license got suspended for drunk driving"  
Officer goes, "Registration then"  
Four-door goes, "Sorry, don't got no registration boss. Stole the car"  
Officer goes, "You stole the car"  
Four-door goes, "Yeah...wait, maybe the registration is in the glove box, I think I saw it when I was putting my gun in there"  
Officer goes, "You got a gun"  
Four-door goes, "That's where I put it after I shot the bitch who wouldn't give me her car"  
Officer goes, "...shot the bitch"  
Four-door goes, "Yeah, her body's in the trunk, fucking fat whore is making the whole car ride low"

So the officer's mind is blown and he calls his sergeant and before long there were cops, FBI, Homeland Security, the thing was surrounded on all sides. A detective comes up to the car.

The detective goes, "Do you have any ID"  
Four-door goes, "Sure, here's my driver's license." It was valid. Not suspended.  
The detective goes, "Who owns this car"  
Four-door goes, "I do. Here's the registration." It was registered in his name.

Shut the fuck up, I don't care if you heard it before, I'm making a fucking point.

The detective goes, "May I open the glove box"  
Four-door goes, "Sure, why not?" Nothing in the glove box but papers.  
Detective goes, "Can you open the trunk"  
Four-door goes, "All right." Nothing in the trunk but some old car parts.  
Detective goes, "What the fuck is going on, this officer says you told him the car was stolen and you'd stashed a body in the trunk after a murder"  
Four-door goes, "Yeah, that sonofabitch has it out for me. I bet he told you I was speeding, too!"

The point of the story?

The point...are you stupid?

Are you stupid? Is that your problem?

The point of the story as it applies to you, motherfucker, is that as soon as you think you got someone, that's when you're liable to find that life can change things up on you. You never really know what's going to happen. A point you should be painfully fucking aware of since fifteen minutes ago you had a hostage, a partner, a stooge and open road between here and the Institute safehouse, and now the hostage is loose, your partner is dead, the stooge is gone and I've got a fucking gun at the back of your neck.

I'm telling you, so just shut up.

About fourteen months ago, see, I came across the products of your fine organization, or at least some of them. Kids with wings, on the run, and the monsters you sent to chase them. Through my backyard, snuffing a CI I was working on slipping and setting my indictments back six months, and thank you very much for that by the way. Asshole.

Also when my ex-girlfriend helped out, she's a firefighter, you remembered that when you took her hostage, right, that you weren't dealing with some Puerto Rican long-fingernailed party girl, that you had a two fisted New York's Bravest sitting in the back seat behind you with just some flimsy duct tape around her wrists, you remembered that, didn't you? Anyway, she got targeted too and nearly lost her job.

So it came down to my boss, Special Agent John Lennon - no relation - and he goes and gathers up enough evidence to blow your little Skyscraper of Dr. Moreau into next Wednesday's Post if your asshole boss wouldn't let us go, and go clean. So he let us go, clean. But it was already too late for him and for you and for all you assholes because you came and picked a fight with the FB fucking I and we will cut your legs off with a hacksaw.

Oh, sure, we couldn't do anything directly. The Institute was protected, at a high level. Very high, we heard. They could probably have reached out for the Director if they had known to. Maybe that is what you're thinking you will do if you get out of this mess. Ha ha. Yeah, I bet that's what you're thinking you'll do. Stall things out here with me until you can get away, get to a phone. Complain about a "rogue agent" who needs to be "reined in", call in a few favors, I'll be chasing fertilizer salesmen without their Homeland Security paperwork in Iowa. Haha. Yeah. I bet. Ha.

That's not going to happen.

I'm telling you why if you will just shut up for a few minutes and quit blubbering.

Don't worry. We have time.

* * *

This story is a sequel to "The Long Version", available here... just click on the author's name above... 


End file.
